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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28071159">Dream Come True</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost'>bendingsignpost</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester Mutual Pining, Dean Winchester Has Abandonment Issues, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Likes It Rough, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Fantasy, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Rough Body Play, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Spells &amp; Enchantments, Unrequited Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:33:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,127</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28071159</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dream summoning?” Sam repeats as Dean floors it. “Cas, most of the stolen stuff works for dreamwalking. What do you mean, summoning?”</p><p>Over the phone, Cas answers, “With the proper enclosed space and spell ingredients, he’ll be able to manifest the contents of his last dream. They won’t last long, an hour at the most, but the manifested ingredients only need to be real for enough time to carry out the second spell. And I’d be very surprised if the contents of that dream didn’t include back-up. He could manifest an entire army. Whatever you do, don't let him bleed on the offering.”</p><p>“Got it,” Dean confirms, taking a turn far more quickly than his baby wants. “I’ll just tackle the guy. He doesn’t bleed, we’re good.”</p><p>-</p><p>Naturally, Dean bleeds instead.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>842</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dream Come True</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This isn’t a spell, it’s two spells,” Castiel reports over the phone, his voice piping out into the Impala on speaker. “When the first is complete, they’ll have the materials to complete the second. Get to the warehouse, <em> now. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Speed limit be damned, Dean presses the pedal down harder. Beside him, holding the phone, Sam asks, “How do we know the warehouse one is first, not the graveyard one?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I’m in the graveyard,” Cas answers. “The ingredients they’re missing are all from extinct creatures, but if they carry out the dream summoning, that won’t matter.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dream summoning?” Sam repeats. “Cas, most of the stolen stuff works for dreamwalking. What do you mean, summoning?”</p><p> </p><p>“You said the suspect had trained himself for lucid dreaming, correct?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, we thought that was for the walking.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not in this case. With the proper enclosed space and spell ingredients, he’ll be able to manifest the contents of his last dream. They won’t last long, an hour at the most, but that’s long enough to carry out the second spell. And I’d be very surprised if the contents of that dream didn’t include back-up. He could manifest an entire army.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it,” Dean confirms, taking a turn far more quickly than his baby wants. They make the exit, and flipping off the honking cars behind him is almost an afterthought. “But if we can’t break up part one, you’re ready to intercept before part two, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“How does the spell work?” Sam asks.</p><p> </p><p>“If it’s the one I think it is, all the dreamer has to do is bleed into the offering bowl after all the contents have been burned completely to ash. The last ingredients stolen should take time to burn, I don’t think you’re too late yet.”</p><p> </p><p>With the hand not holding the phone, Sam taps his jacket. “Okay, got my holy water on me, not sure how well that’ll do putting out a fire. Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll just tackle the guy. He doesn’t bleed, we’re good.”</p><p> </p><p>Castiel sighs over the phone. “Good luck. I’ll keep you posted on things here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Cas,” Sam says, and hangs up. “You ready?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean nods, veering around a pothole. Minutes later, he stops the car, and they head in, fast and quiet. The light inside the warehouse betrays their target, firelight gleaming off a blade while something foul-smelling crackles away.</p><p> </p><p>There are times for creeping up and times for rushing in. Then again, there are times for shooting the sonuvabitch too.</p><p> </p><p>The shot rings out, their would-be conjurer falls, and they run the rest of the way in before the guy can try to get up.</p><p> </p><p>And then, lying in his own blood, the fucker kicks over the fire pit setup he’s got going.</p><p> </p><p>Flame and ash spills out.</p><p> </p><p>Out onto the warehouse floor.</p><p> </p><p>Dean sees the blood.</p><p> </p><p>Sees the spill.</p><p> </p><p>Sees the fucker reaching.</p><p> </p><p>Running full tilt, Dean drops his gun, pulls his knife, and slices his hand.</p><p> </p><p>He dives for it.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck!” he shouts, scalding ash sizzling against the wet flesh of his palm, searing into the cut. Something fizzes up his arm, inside his blood, and it rumbles its way up inside his brain. There, in startling clarity, Dean’s dream from last night surges to the forefront.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh goddamn fucking shit.” He drags his palm back from the concrete floor but it’s too late, it’s in him, it’s in him and forcing its way out. The air around him thickens with potential as the burnt stench dissipates. Something is coming, and Dean knows exactly what.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean?” Sam asks, dragging the would-be summoner away from the spill. “Did you just-”</p><p> </p><p>“You gotta leave,” Dean orders, dragging himself back up to standing, applying pressure to his cut palm. “Sam, seriously, take the guy, get out of here-”</p><p> </p><p>Eyes wide, Sam stares between the spill and Dean’s rapidly healing palm, at the thickening haze of something more than dust that follows Dean’s hand. “Okay, you summoned a nightmare.” Sam breathes out hard. “We can handle that. We-”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not,” Dean interrupts. “I’ll be okay, but you gotta go. <em> Now</em>. Cas said an hour-”</p><p> </p><p>The guy on the floor puts in his two cents by coughing out a few rattling breaths and dying.</p><p> </p><p>In the half a second it takes both Dean and Sam to look down and confirm this, something changes.</p><p> </p><p>“Sam,” Dean warns, but Sam’s already looking. Already frowning.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Cas</em>?” Sam asks, staring past Dean. “What are you- Dean, that’s not Cas.”</p><p> </p><p>Sam grabs Dean’s shoulder. Tries to pull Dean away with him.</p><p> </p><p>The moment Dean turns to look, his feet stick to the floor. Not a metaphor of nerves, no, they are literally stuck, trapped in place.</p><p> </p><p>The blue blaze in Castiel’s eyes and the tightening grip of his outstretched hand are explanation enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Sam, you gotta go,” Dean whispers, pulse thundering in his head, in his limbs, as Castiel advances on him, unhurried and undeterred. His eyes burn, searing away everything in Dean’s peripherals in a whitening haze.</p><p> </p><p>In record speed, Sam’s reached down and drawn a sigil in fresh blood. But triggering an angel banishment does absolutely nothing when it’s not a real angel. “Shit,” Sam swears. He hauls on Dean once again, failing to unbalance him, let alone budge him.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean, whatever nightmare this is, this is just a nightmare.” Sam puts himself between them, eyes on the approaching faux-angel as every crate in the warehouse rattles, as every light bulb explodes. “This isn’t real.”</p><p> </p><p>With one outstretched hand still binding Dean to the ground, the Castiel facsimile slows to a stop. The glow in his eyes fades enough not to blind. Even so, those eyes remain the brightest two spots in the building.</p><p> </p><p>“Sam,” this Castiel says in a low, dark tone, “you should go.”</p><p> </p><p>Gun in hand, Sam holds fast between them. “No. Dean, you know Cas won’t hurt you, you have to-”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Sam</em>,” the Castiel repeats. “I am not going to ask you again.”</p><p> </p><p>Already panting, already dizzy and burning with embarrassment, Dean tries one last time: “Sam-”</p><p> </p><p>In one single, fluid motion, Castiel ducks around Sam.</p><p> </p><p>Strikes Dean across the face in a sharp, open-palmed blow.</p><p> </p><p>And seizes Dean before the momentum can topple him.</p><p> </p><p>A wrenching twist traps Dean’s arms behind him; one vise-like hand secures them there. Still warm with impact, the striking palm covers Dean’s gasp of pain, clamping his mouth shut. One strong arm drags Dean forward against that immovable body, just as that muffling hand pushes Dean backward. With his feet once again free, Dean barely keeps from falling over Castiel’s arm at his back. The only leverage keeping Dean from falling is the hard press of Dean’s crotch against Castiel’s.</p><p> </p><p>All in one second.</p><p> </p><p>Glowering down into Dean’s eyes, digging his fingertips into Dean’s flushed cheek, Castiel growls, “Did I tell you to use your mouth for <em> anything </em> other than my cock?”</p><p> </p><p>The tiny amount Dean can, he shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh fuck,” Sam says from behind him.</p><p> </p><p>The noise that comes out of Dean isn’t human. It’s pure humiliation.</p><p> </p><p>In that slow, patient threat of a voice, Castiel continues, “Why would you put your brother’s name where my cock goes?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep, no, I’m gone,” Sam announces, his words increasingly distant. “Dream, yeah, got it, I’ll just- That’s your bed, I’ll be- That is a <em> lot of- </em> oh wow, I <em> did not need to know this</em>. Yeah, bye.”</p><p> </p><p>Bending Dean backwards over his own restrained arms, Castiel doesn’t acknowledge Sam in the slightest. “What is your mouth for, Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>Shaking against the unwavering form of this Castiel’s body, Dean can only suck in air through his nose and try not to die of the shame igniting his cheeks, his scalp, his everything. Of the gut-punching arousal from having his legs forced to part around Castiel’s thighs, of having that point of contact be the one thing that keeps Dean from tipping back onto the concrete. There’s a dead man on the floor, and it doesn’t even matter. Once a door slams, hiding Sam away into the outside world, nothing matters.</p><p> </p><p>Chin raised, nostrils flared, Castiel squeezes Dean’s face, palm and fingertips pinching Dean’s cheeks together, digging in where Dean’s teeth clench, until he has no choice but to open his mouth, to pant against Castiel’s fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“Show me,” Castiel commands.</p><p> </p><p>He adjusts his grip on Dean’s face. Jarringly tender, his palm cups Dean’s stinging cheek; without mercy, his thumb thrusts into Dean’s mouth, shoving all the way in, digging up against Dean’s soft palate.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s reflexive gags make no difference. His instinctual struggles fail, and each failure only heats his face hotter, only fills his dick fuller. Wriggling for freedom or writhing for friction, there’s no distinction.</p><p> </p><p>“Suck,” Castiel orders. This solid, unreal Castiel. A dream made physical, but still very much a dream.</p><p> </p><p><em> You ain’t him</em>, Dean tries to shoot back, coughing and drooling against a hand that could crush his skull. His Cas, the real Cas, that Cas would never do this. A Cas who wouldn’t understand this or, worse, would pity him for it. A kind, awkward sympathy, bestowed in a platonic squeeze of the shoulder, not of his face or neck or dick.</p><p> </p><p>The single hand clamped around his wrists, clamps down harder. His bones grind against each other. Reflexively, his arms fight to free themselves from behind his back, but of course they fail.</p><p> </p><p>That’s the dream, isn’t it.</p><p> </p><p>Cas refusing to let him go.</p><p> </p><p>“I told you to suck me,” Castiel growls. He pulls out his thumb to shove in two fingers instead, longer and deeper, twice as thick. Dean chokes anew. His head spins. His dick hardens. His vision takes on flecks of light, sparks of darkness as he hyperventilates.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel’s eyes gleam blue-white. “You’re not allowed to pass out, Dean. When you lose consciousness, it will be while you come on my cock or not at all.” He tilts his head in cool consideration. “Or while you beg for my cock. I haven’t decided.”</p><p> </p><p>Even without the issue of air, Dean’s eyes fight to roll back into his head. It’s too real. Too fucking real. Sounds real. Smells real. Maybe tastes real, he doesn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>With a small motion of his fingers, Castiel triggers Dean’s gag reflex. His hand rides out Dean’s coughing. Patient to the point of impassive, Castiel watches the drool leak from Dean’s mouth, the tears leak from Dean’s eyes. He shoves another finger in, forcing Dean’s jaw open wider. “If you can’t suck my fingers properly, Dean, why should I give you anything else? <em> Suck</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t mean to. In the part of his brain not tied up in the desperate demands of his body, Dean doesn’t mean to use this simulacrum of his best friend as a sex toy. He really, truly doesn’t mean to, but the simulacrum doesn’t listen to Dean’s waking mind.</p><p> </p><p>Dean knows exactly how that dream ended.</p><p> </p><p>He knows exactly what’s going to happen if he follows the plot, and exactly what Cas is gonna arrive to when he inevitably comes to check on Dean and Sam.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m willing to wait,” Castiel threatens, but maybe, <em> maybe </em> he can’t. Gone in an hour.</p><p> </p><p>Still plenty of time for Cas to come find this.</p><p> </p><p>But the dream itself… That had been shorter. Right? Hard to tell with dreams, as hard as it is to think with three fingers crammed in his mouth and an erection pressing back against his. But maybe shorter.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe… if Dean follows along…</p><p> </p><p>Maybe they can finish up before Cas gets here.</p><p> </p><p>“Well?” Castiel demands, pressing down against Dean’s tongue.</p><p> </p><p>Dean closes his eyes and opens his throat. Regardless of the demands of his body, he gasps for air through his nose. He licks between Castiel’s fingers. He wraps his lips around them, pulling with his mouth, furtively bobbing his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Better. Look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>He can’t.</p><p> </p><p>Again, Castiel grinds the bones of both Dean’s wrists. Dean’s dick throbs with the hurt. His mouth falls open with it.</p><p> </p><p>“If you want me, you’ll look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>Face and chest burning, Dean looks at him.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel’s smile is as faint as it is victorious.</p><p> </p><p>Dean can’t breathe for wanting to lick it off his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Show me how badly you want me,” Castiel orders, pushing his fingers deep. He forces Dean against the fulcrum of his arm, over it, and it’s not Dean’s fault, it isn’t, it’s all reflex, wrapping one leg around Castiel’s hip. There’s nothing holding him up but Castiel.</p><p> </p><p>“Show me everything you’d do to make me stay.”</p><p> </p><p>The noise trickles out around Castiel’s fingers, a keening, hitching whimper too desperate to be sexy. Mortification blazes though Dean, hotter than his dick, hotter than Castiel himself, but Castiel simply nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Better.” Castiel releases Dean’s arms without freeing them: unbreakable heat binds and supports Dean’s wrists behind his back even as Castiel’s wide palm traverses the path down Dean’s spine. As his middle finger presses into the crease of Dean’s jeans, staying atop the denim.</p><p> </p><p>Dean jolts at the touch over his hole, at the tease of it when Dean knows what’s actually coming next. With a tiny, pleased hum, Castiel slides his hand down Dean’s ass and <em> up </em> the back of his thigh, hitching Dean’s leg higher around his waist. There’s nothing behind Dean keeping him up now, nothing but the heat binding his arms, and yet this is still enough.</p><p> </p><p>The hand in Dean’s mouth shifts, three fingers pressing down against Dean’s tongue, Castiel’s thumb and pinkie pressing up against the underside of his jaw. The slow thrust of his fingers down Dean’s throat tilts Dean back farther, tilts him until he has to be falling.</p><p> </p><p>Too awake to trust the physics of floating dream sex, Dean grabs on in the only way he can and bites down. On anyone—anything—else, there’d be crunching and blood, but Castiel simply narrows his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not allowed to fall, Dean,” Castiel chastens him like this is something Dean’s supposed to know. “But if you think you belong on the floor, then that’s where I’ll have to put you.”</p><p> </p><p>With an irresistible gravity, the force binding Dean’s arms compels him downward. Castiel pulls his fingers free of Dean’s mouth, and, no longer being pushed over backward, Dean falls forward instead, his heated face dragging against Castiel’s tie, his belt. For an instant, Dean’s cheek rests over a hard bulge. He turns his head towards it, mouth opening wide.</p><p> </p><p>Pain erupts across his scalp as Castiel pulls him back. As Castiel makes Dean look up at him, shaking and horny on his knees. With his arms restrained behind him, there’s no hope of hiding his own erection, or the damp spot that’s made it all the way through both his boxers and his jeans in record time. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you wet for me?” Castiel asks, as if checking some piece of routine maintenance. Cocking his head, Castiel inspects Dean, pulling Dean’s head back once more when Dean instinctively tries to hunch forward and hide.</p><p> </p><p>An unseen force grips Dean’s knees, a force very much shaped like a pair of warm hands. As Dean strains against the grip in his short hair, against the bindings on his wrists, his knees begin to drag themselves apart. When they’ve spread as wide as they can go, wider than his dick and his jeans agree with, they stop.</p><p> </p><p>And Castiel steps forward, a foot against the inside of each knee, securing Dean in place.</p><p> </p><p>With a slow, proprietary inspection, Castiel’s eyes trace Dean’s shaking thighs. They linger on the damp spot.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s very good, Dean,” Castiel tells him.</p><p> </p><p>With nothing plugging his mouth or blocking his nose, Dean still fights to breathe.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you like being wet for me?” Castiel asks.</p><p> </p><p>“I-”</p><p> </p><p>Castiel slaps him.</p><p> </p><p>Strikes him stinging, across the face.</p><p> </p><p>The bonds on his wrists tether him in place when momentum seeks to send him flying. His shoulders ache at the tug.</p><p> </p><p>A hot, wet pulse drips out into his jeans.</p><p> </p><p>Behind Castiel—his waist, his belt, his coat—sit the remains of the spell and the remains of the would-be summoner. Dean closes his eyes against reality.</p><p> </p><p>“How many times do I have to teach you?” Castiel asks. “Your mouth is for my cock.”</p><p> </p><p>A palm cradles the top of Dean’s head. A thumb pulls once across Dean’s eyelid.</p><p> </p><p>Panting, shaking, Dean looks up and nods.</p><p> </p><p>With another faint smile, Castiel shifts his feet, pushing Dean’s knees another aching inch apart.</p><p> </p><p>“What is your mouth for, Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean looks at Castiel’s crotch. No visible wet against that dark blue, but the arousal is a sight enough. How many furtive times has Dean tried to size Cas up? Too many. He’d had his chance to look, once, when Cas was half-mad and shrouded in bees, but morals prevailed and left his imagination wanting.</p><p> </p><p>And this, that nigh-inhuman bulge, is what his imagination wants.</p><p> </p><p>Dean opens his mouth. He plays his tongue out over his bottom lip, just barely. A soft cushion, a place of Castiel to use.</p><p> </p><p>“Very good,” Castiel rumbles. The thick shape in his suit pants thickens further. “Show me how much you want it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean sinks down, thighs spasming from the position. He begs with his mouth. Behind his back, his arms are forced to unfold, his wrists dragged down to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>If Dean’s panting isn’t loud enough to fill the entire warehouse, his pulse must do the job.</p><p> </p><p>And then, louder still, Castiel unzips.</p><p> </p><p>Dean whimpers.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel raises his eyebrows at the unasked for sound, and Dean braces himself for the strike. Instead of a slapping palm, he gets something slower: the thick and heavy tap of Castiel’s cock against his cheek. Enormous and only half hard, Castiel swings himself against each side of Dean’s face. With a thoughtful hum, Castiel strokes Dean’s cheeks by hand, Dean’s stubble vanishing in the wake of Castiel’s fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“Better.” Longer, harder taps with Castiel’s longer, harder dick. Dean turns his head with the blows, dragging out the contact. Strike by weighty strike, Dean sinks into the rhythm of the slowing onslaught. Back and forth, smearing his cheeks with pre-come. Back and forth, chasing Castiel with his lips.</p><p> </p><p>At last, Castiel seizes Dean by the hair, as tight and aching as the short length necessitates. Castiel holds Dean still while he traces Dean’s lips with the immense head of his dick. Breathing heavily through his nose, going almost cross-eyed as he tracks the motions, Dean struggles at first to kneel higher. To move his center of gravity further forward, to anywhere more stable than his perpetual fall backward and its strain on his thighs. To be able to reach out with more than his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>No matter what Dean does, no matter how he tries, there’s nothing to be done. Castiel only nudges Dean’s knees farther apart with each failed attempt, until there’s no telling whether Dean’s tears are of frustration or the immense pain of his legs or of the agony of tight, wet jeans tugging against his dick.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Dean gives up. His shuddering muscles go limp, or try to. He lets himself fall, and doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s very good, Dean,” Castiel praises, and he feeds Dean his cock.</p><p> </p><p>Wider and wider, Dean’s jaw strains. Tighter and tighter, his throat struggles. And hotter, so much hotter, his body immolates with want. Tears drain from his eyes freely. Drool falls from his stretched lips. There’s no air, none, but above him, Castiel’s eyes burn and it no longer matters.</p><p> </p><p>His hand tight around the back of Dean’s head, Castiel draws Dean forward. Stoppers Dean’s throat completely.</p><p> </p><p>Dean gags.</p><p> </p><p>He coughs.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t mean to, but he bites.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel drags him off and slaps him anew.</p><p> </p><p>Rocking against the force binding his wrists to floor, Dean cries out. His dick pulses hard, and keeps pulsing. Holding Dean’s head in place, forcing Dean to reveal himself, Castiel watches the shaking thrusts of Dean’s hips against nothing but the painful restraint of his jeans.</p><p> </p><p>When this at last stops and the world tilts and pulses in soft slow ways, Castiel brings his cock back to Dean’s lips and says, “Again.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean sucks apologies. He sucks gratitude. He kisses the massive girth as best he can, as much as he can. He controls himself better when he starts to gag, or maybe Castiel takes that away from him, holding Dean’s throat open the same way he holds open Dean’s legs.</p><p> </p><p>With shallow, nudging thrusts, Castiel works himself deeper, deeper, too deep. Dream again presses up against reality in a terrifying friction of the impossible.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t matter.</p><p> </p><p>Dragged lower and folded backward, Dean can only stare up at Castiel, looking up and up until his throat becomes a straight line down, a straight passage down that Castiel fills inch by suffocating inch. Panic fires in Dean’s brain, not for air or safety or logic, but the terrified sensation of his lips stretched too far, his teeth too much bared. Castiel won’t like it, it won’t be good, Castiel will get his cock all the way down Dean’s throat only to decide it’s not worth the bother.</p><p> </p><p>His nerves buzz in confusion, his lungs bewildered, his heart galloping. He chokes and chokes perpetually, except he doesn’t, he controls it, he learns to control it by letting it happen. He can flutter his throat.</p><p> </p><p>A tickle reaches his nose. A heavy weight taps against Dean’s chin.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s it,” Castiel praises, voice low and thick and deep. He strokes both sides of Dean’s face, soothes the burning ache of his jaw. “Open your eyes, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean does. Barely. Hazily. Hardly able to register the public hair before his nose, or the comforting weight of Castiel’s balls against his chin.</p><p> </p><p>“Come for me,” Castiel commands, and there is no choice, only trembling. Castiel holds Dean’s head in place, holds him still while he falls apart. The mess of his lap simply worsens the torture. Every jerk of Dean’s hips drags him through bright sparks of pain. “You’re so wet for me, Dean.” Castiel pets Dean’s damp hair. “You’re going to swallow my come until it leaks out of you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean tightens his throat.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel throws back his head and sighs. Still holding Dean in place, he pushes deeper, pushes all the way in until Dean kisses him to the root. That gets a groan, low and approving.</p><p> </p><p>Aching everywhere—throat, lips, shoulders, wrists, thighs, knees, dick, heart—Dean sucks him. Kisses him. Begs him with the tiny motions still left to him.</p><p> </p><p>That’s when Castiel starts to thrust.</p><p> </p><p>The first drag out nearly destroys Dean.</p><p> </p><p>The first push back in, does completely.</p><p> </p><p>Limp and shaking, Dean lets himself be used. With grunts and groans, he begs to be used, unable to keep going on his own. Castiel fucks into his mouth. Fucks him deep and fucks him hard. Dean’s lungs and brain and blood agree that it’s time to pass out, that there’s not enough air, but the white-blue glow in Castiel’s eyes disagrees. It overrules reality.</p><p> </p><p>“Take it,” Castiel urges, touching himself through Dean’s stretched cheek. “Do you feel me, Dean? Do you feel me deep enough?”</p><p> </p><p>A desperate, trembling nod is the best Dean can do.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel drags and drags his endless dick out. And, lining Dean up to take another thrust down, replies, “Don’t lie to me, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>He slams in and Dean’s entire body seizes. Every inch of him is pain, every inch of him is sweat. He only realizes how sodden his shirts are when his jacket and flannel drag themselves down his arms. The chill of his wet cotton t-shirt comes in a short-lived burst, wiped out by the ever-escalating heat.</p><p> </p><p>Above him, having done nothing more than loosened his belt and unzipped his fly, Castiel fucks him to pieces, fully clothed.</p><p> </p><p>Liquid drains down Dean’s throat. Sweat pours down his spine. Tears from his eyes. Spit and pre-come from his lips.</p><p> </p><p>He hurts.</p><p> </p><p>He hurts, and he hurts.</p><p> </p><p>It’s still not enough.</p><p> </p><p>Even when Castiel hardens further in his throat. Thickens between his stretched lips. Pulses hot against his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>Even then.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not enough.</p><p> </p><p>Groaning, Castiel fucks into Dean’s mouth slower and slower. He presses all the way in, dragging Dean up to the hilt, and it’s the first time Dean starts to cry and mean it.</p><p> </p><p>As Castiel pulls out for the last time, the muscles of Dean’s throat shift and strain back into their proper conditions. His lip tingles, an unnoticed split repairing. The ache in his jaw lessens, enough for Dean to catch at the head of that massive dick, to beg at the sweet spot beneath it before Castiel takes it away entirely.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas,” Dean gasps, hoarse.</p><p> </p><p>Almost lazily, Castiel backhands him.</p><p> </p><p>This time, Dean collapses all the way to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Sighing, Castiel sits beside him, cock still out and still half-hard.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh Dean,” Castiel says, petting Dean’s damp hair. “You know what you’re allowed to say.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean knows.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers.</p><p> </p><p>It’s dream logic he can’t act on, waking.</p><p> </p><p>But as Castiel stands, leaving Dean abruptly naked, it’s clear dream logic doesn’t care he’s awake.</p><p> </p><p>Unable to speak, Dean grabs at Castiel’s coat. Not the hem, but the waist tie, forever untied. Dean grabs and pulls and, somehow, the tie doesn’t pull free, doesn’t slip from the loops against Castiel’s hips.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel looks down at the aching mess he’s left and smiles. He slips out of his trench coat and carefully, gently, lays it over Dean.</p><p> </p><p>With his hands once again freed, Dean covers his face. There’s no point. He remembers exactly how this dream went.</p><p> </p><p>Uncaring of Dean’s weight or their respective sizes, Castiel hoists Dean up in his arms, a mortified bundle wrapped in a trench coat. Without looking, Dean knows where they’re going. When he’s set down, he’d know this memory foam mattress anywhere, even a spell-summoned replica.</p><p> </p><p>It’s just a copy. Even this Castiel.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not real, and it can’t break him.</p><p> </p><p>With his eyes squeezed shut, Dean might even believe that. Then he hears Castiel’s shoes hitting the ground. Feels Castiel lying down beside him.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know why I’m hurting you, Dean?” Castiel asks, patient and inevitable.</p><p> </p><p>Refusing to look, Dean shakes his head. Bad enough to have his subconscious do this to him in his sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Sighing, Castiel slips one warm hand beneath his blanketing coat. He idly thumbs at Dean’s nipple before pinching it. Gently, at first. But harder. And harder.</p><p> </p><p>Gradually, relentlessly, harder.</p><p> </p><p>Trapped naked and motionless beneath the trench coat, Dean’s only possible response is a high whimper, shooting higher still when Castiel begins to twist.</p><p> </p><p>Without looking, Dean can see Castiel’s face. Can see the trench coat start to tent up already.</p><p> </p><p>“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me, Dean,” Castiel tells him, more disappointed than disapproving. “You know what you’re allowed to say.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head harder, because he’s not. In his dreams, maybe, but only in them. And not to any Cas, even a fake one.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel releases Dean’s abused nipple only to repeat the torture on the other side. As he tightens that pinch, Castiel shifts closer, stretching his body out alongside Dean’s. At the breath against his face, Dean looks, has to look.</p><p> </p><p>Faintly, Castiel smiles. He stops pinching and instead traces the abused skin with a fingertip. He lost his jacket somewhere, ditto the tie, and this is somehow still more perverse than his unrealistically massive cock.</p><p> </p><p>The way he noses in for a kiss is even worse.</p><p> </p><p>Doesn’t stop Dean from kissing back, though.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel’s smile grows and grows against Dean’s used lips. He hums approval as Dean pushes into his mouth. Climbing on top of Dean, keeping him naked and pinned to the bed beneath his trench coat, Castiel thrusts his renewed erection against Dean’s with all the satisfaction of a promised orgasm.</p><p> </p><p>If Dean could, he’d wrap his arms around those shoulders. If he could, he’d push down that abruptly unbuttoned shirt.</p><p> </p><p>But Dean can’t, and he doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>The dream’s almost over, he reminds himself desperately. The heat, the scent, the slow drag of lips against his, the too-rough scrape of Castiel’s stubble against his neck, the hot tongue exploring his pulse; it’s almost over.</p><p> </p><p>Dean sucks in a hard breath.</p><p> </p><p>“Why am I hurting you, Dean?” Castiel asks gently, sadly.</p><p> </p><p>“Not real,” Dean gasps out in the split second before Castiel claps a hand over his mouth. And his nose.</p><p> </p><p>Lying half atop Dean, propped on the elbow of the same arm he’s using to slowly suffocate Dean, Castiel reaches down with his free hand. A muffled noise filters through Castiel’s fingers as Dean tries to shout, as Castiel works him through the trench coat. The air Dean loses, he can’t replace.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not what you’re allowed to say.” Castiel leans in close, his hand down below never pausing. He kisses Dean’s cheek, pressing his lips above his own fingers. “Try again. Do you know why I’m hurting you, Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head. Shakes inside his skin. Lungs straining, throat burning. The rising panic.</p><p> </p><p>It feels right.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel nods. “Closer. Do you know?”</p><p> </p><p>Beneath the trench coat, Dean cannot thrash. He can’t break free. He cannot breathe. He can only stare up at Castiel, lungs and dick about to burst.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me, Dean,” Castiel says yet again. And again. An elongated torture of two hands, one motionless, one relentless. “All you need to do is nod.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean whimpers until he can’t, but he does not nod. Bursts of color stain his vision, even as it darkens.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know why I’m hurting you, Dean?” Castiel whispers against his ear, breath hot, tone eternally patient.</p><p> </p><p>With the smallest tilt of his head, Dean presses into the touch, but he does not nod.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel sighs. He looks down at Dean through an impossibly lengthening distance even as his fingers draw Dean up to the edge, the barrier of the coat be damned.</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” Castiel says. Just that.</p><p> </p><p>Dean nods.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel lifts his hand—both hands—and Dean sucks in air only to cry out.</p><p> </p><p>“Can you tell me?” Castiel asks. One hand strokes through Dean’s sweat damp hair. The other rests on his heaving chest. “Why am I hurting you?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know,” Dean rasps.</p><p> </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Castiel treats Dean to another round of the nipple treatment until Dean bellows and screams. Castiel stops too soon.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it easier?” Castiel asks. “If I say it instead?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>Doesn’t answer.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel tucks the trench coat in around him. He kisses Dean’s cheek, then Dean’s lips when Dean presses close.</p><p> </p><p>Sighing, Castiel pulls back in incremental amounts. First his lips. Then the tip of his nose circling Dean’s. Away and away, until the only piece of Castiel still touching Dean is the coat.</p><p> </p><p>Dean strains for him. With his mouth. With his dick dampening the coat’s lining.</p><p> </p><p>Lying on his side, bare save for his suit pants, Castiel watches Dean’s silent struggle.</p><p> </p><p>Throat thick, the words breaking, Dean finally admits, “I need you to.”</p><p> </p><p>His smile bright and pleased, Castiel again squeezes Dean through the coat. “You need me to hurt you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean gasps, fighting to press up against Castiel’s palm. “Please, Cas.”</p><p> </p><p>“No one hurts you like I do,” Castiel adds in his blunt, almost conversational way. “And I don’t hurt anyone as much as I hurt you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean nods and nods, faster as Castiel works him.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s comforting, isn’t it?” Castiel asks. “You like it. You need it, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do, I do,” Dean swears and promises. “Hit me, choke me, fuck me up, Cas, you gotta-”</p><p> </p><p>Castiel’s hand leaves Dean’s hair to settle across his throat. “I’ll hurt you until you can’t breathe. Is that what you want, Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>Knocking his chin against Castiel’s immovable forearm, Dean nods. Castiel presses down, and down, and again Dean suffocates.</p><p> </p><p>It matches.</p><p> </p><p>It mirrors.</p><p> </p><p>It makes sense.</p><p> </p><p>His desperate, gasping, dying body and his heart: they finally feel the exact same thing.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it even love if it doesn’t hurt?” Castiel asks against his lips.</p><p> </p><p>Straining for more than air, Dean opens his mouth wide. Reaches with his tongue, the only part of him he can move, and tastes the blue-white blast waiting to consume him. Consciousness slides and sidles away, but still Dean kisses him. Can’t stop. Hurts too much to keep going, hurts too much to pull back.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you, Dean,” Castiel whispers into him, the glow blazing hot between his teeth. Castiel slips it inside of him, easy as dying, and everything breaks apart.</p><p> </p><p>Dean.</p><p> </p><p>Air.</p><p> </p><p>Thought.</p><p> </p><p>Everything, except for the seizing agony of the layer between them. The barrier that keeps Dean down. The distance that keeps Castiel from him.</p><p> </p><p>“If I hurt you enough, will you feel my love?” Castiel asks, his voice the only softness left in the world. He lifts the restraint of his arm just enough to let Dean answer.</p><p> </p><p>“Try,” Dean begs, gasping.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” Castiel promises, words that can’t reach him, and smites Dean from the inside blazing out.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>After, when there is an after, <em> if </em> there is an after, his body aches against concrete. Bruises pool beneath his skin from a sharp, full-bodied impact against the cool floor. The chill weakens his bones, enough that the taut pull of his muscles threatens to splinter them into countless shards. He is cold, and naked, and bare.</p><p> </p><p>But he is not alone.</p><p> </p><p>Back in his suit, Castiel kneels down next to him, seeking out Dean’s eyes as they open. Dean’s tongue unsticks from the roof of his mouth. He swallows as Castiel drapes his trench coat back over Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you all right?” Castiel asks.</p><p> </p><p>Not knowing how to answer, Dean doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Castiel touches Dean’s forehead, a gentle two-finger touch that reaches into Dean. It shivers instead of burns, restores instead of harms.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s eyes widen. He scrambles to sit up and the trench coat lets him, just a coat. It falls down to his lap, piling against his stomach, over his soft dick.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas,” Dean says, realizes.</p><p> </p><p>“Sam asked me to check on you when it was ‘all clear’,” Cas explains, doing the quotations one-handed. With a small grin and the tiny conspiratorial lean he thinks is casual, Cas adds, “He said you were having a sex dream and he didn’t want to risk seeing it. We waited in the car. Sam doesn’t usually play music that loudly.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, right.” Dean clears his throat. Looks around. Remembers that the cooling body was there the entire time, unlike, for example, the bed that vanished and dropped him onto concrete. “Where are my clothes?”</p><p> </p><p>“There.” Cas points.</p><p> </p><p>Dean twists around, turning his bare back to Cas where he sits. Furtively, Dean pulls one of the arms of the trench coat around his back, hiding at least the crack of his ass. With his other hand, he reaches for his clothes. He has to scoot his bare ass across the rough, dirty floor, but he manages it, grunting.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas, you mind?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas shakes his head, then fails to look away.</p><p> </p><p>Dean clears his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, right. Personal space.”</p><p> </p><p>Standing, Cas turns away, impossibly more naked than Dean in just his suit. He fiddles with his hands behind his back as Dean drags himself up off the floor, keeping the coat over himself.</p><p> </p><p>Dean picks up his underwear, half-crunchy, half-wet. His jeans, too, are sweat-soaked, a one-way ticket to chaffing. At least, Dean will call it sweat-soaked. Most of it is. </p><p> </p><p>“…Awkward favor time?” Dean asks, tying the trench coat shut around him, flasher style.</p><p> </p><p>Cas looks over his shoulder. Tilts his head.</p><p> </p><p>“My clothes are kinda gross.”</p><p> </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Cas steps in close, but his eyebrows rise as he touches the damp bundle. “That must have been a good dream,” Cas muses in his deep rumble.</p><p> </p><p>Dean coughs. “Uh, yeah.” He shuffles around and slips on the abruptly spotless underwear and jeans under the cover of the trench coat. Taking it off is harder than expected, but only emotionally.</p><p> </p><p>Cas accepts his coat back with a nod. He puts it on as Dean pulls his shirts back on, though Dean’s the only one who pulls a muscle in the process.</p><p> </p><p>“Sonuvabitch,” Dean mutters, rolling his shoulder as he buttons up his flannel, only to duck away from Cas’ hand. “Whoa, hey hey hey.”</p><p> </p><p>Still reaching, Cas levels a look at him. “Hold still.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine,” Dean insists.</p><p> </p><p>Touching Dean’s forehead, Cas sends another healing wave through him anyway. “You know I don’t like seeing you in pain, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean says, and sighs. “I know.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to Vyc and Ltleflrt for the beta!</p><p>As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on <a href="http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/">tumblr here</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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